Midnight Talks
by The Shinigumi
Summary: An enemy becomes a friend through talks in the darkness, and is torn away by Voldemort. Revenge, deathfic, possible slash


Midnight Talks  
  
Author: The Shinigumi  
  
Archived: Only at ff.net, but if you want to put it up, just ask? Won't say no, I just like to know ^_^  
  
Warning: This is another of those cheerful bits I wrote while listening to classical music. Someone should tell me to stop doing that... (I was listening to Pachelbel's Canon, in case anyone wondered, so perhaps that's a suggested song?) You can sorta tell when a different song came on, because the tone shifts slightly.   
  
A/N: *relief* I had almost this whole fic written quickly, but it took me over a year to end it. Not coincidentally, that was the amount of time it had been since I heard my Loreena McKennett cd, and the somber tone of one of her songs finally kicked me into finishing. Enough babble though- Enjoy. Oh, and thanks to the ubershibby Ryuu-chan (Ff.net: D.A. Maxwell) for beta reading ^___^ *tackles her*   
  
Summary: An enemy becomes a friend through talks in the darkness, and is torn away by Voldemort. Revenge, deathfic, possible slash (Harry/Draco)  
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We hated each other.   
  
I accepted this in the way I accepted the fact that my eyes are green or that my hair will never obey me or the laws of gravity. It was a simple fact, and I knew it.  
  
And yet... sometimes, we talked to each other. No one else knew this, of course, and sometimes even I found that I couldn't believe it.   
  
When we were holed up in some dark, abandoned room of Hogwart's, or simply outside in the cold by the lake, it was hard to believe.   
  
He never acted the same, not like he did in public, when we were alone. All our insults lacked conviction, and sometimes, I could almost think that he was the best friend I had.  
Of course, there is Ron, but Ron was raised by a large family that loves and nurtured him, and it shows in every movement he makes.  
  
I have no one else who understands what it was liked to be raised feeling like an outsider in your own home, with no one who really cares for you.  
  
So we met, and talked, and sometimes he would curl that slim, beautiful body up in the dark, and sway gently as he talked, as though dancing to some music only he could hear. Sometimes his words would come out as though he were singing with it, low and full of complicated tones and delicate overtures.   
  
I was the only one who ever saw him like this, I think. I was the only one who knew that there was more to him than the prideful, hateful git who stalked the school as though he owned it and laughed at the misfortune of others. I was the only one who knew how much of that was a defensive mechanism; the only one who knew him well enough that I was no longer insulted when he yelled at me, or laughed at my dead parents. He didn't really mean harm, he was simply raised that way.  
I'm also the only one who saw the blind terror in his eyes when he spoke of his father- of growing up to become his father. I'm the only one who noticed him whenever someone happened to comment on how very like his father he was, and how he would no doubt follow in his footsteps and become a Death Eater as well.   
  
No one else saw how pale he would become, that distant look taking over his eyes, as he rocked almost unnoticably back and forth while people discussed him as though he weren't there.   
His defenses really were incredible. He'd told me what he'd gone through in his life, in dead tones, his voice daring me to pity him.   
  
And I didn't. I knew that he'd been through a hell I couldn't imagine- but then, I've been through my own kind of hell as well. I felt sympathy with him, and we talked- as equals. He always listened patiently when I would speak, and we never interrupted each other. When I talked, he never swayed- he sat very still, and would fix his eyes on something as he listened- sometimes a chair, a rock, or occasionally, on myself. It would normally unnerve me to have someone sit so silently and watch my eyes so intensely, but somehow he never made me uncomfortable.  
  
I felt safe telling him my secrets, things I've never told anyone else and things I never even knew I thought. I told him my secrets because he wouldn't tell anyone. It's in his nature to hoard things- secrets, and other things as well. Once he caught hold of something, he'd attach to it as though afraid that someone would try to steal it away from him, and anything he held in his mind he'd keep close and never let anyone near.  
  
Except me.   
  
He told me some of his secrets as well, although whether it's because I'm a Gryffindor or for some other reasons, I suppose I'll never know.   
  
I only know his voice, and how in those surreal midnight hours when we talked the world seemed more bearable, and the threat of death that hangs over my head from Voldemort seemed to evaporate like our white breath on a cold night.  
  
I'm not afraid of him. I'm not even afraid of death, really, just sort of distant from it. I've been very distant from everything lately, but don't really want to think right now.  
  
So of course, my mind returns to him, as it has almost nonstop for the past several weeks.   
  
I remember how ghostly he used to look in the moonlight; a pale apparition with grey eyes and silvery hair, swaying with the wind and talking in low tones that he tried to block all emotion from.   
  
It almost never worked.   
  
And once, when he was talking about his father, he began to cry very silently- but I didn't mention it, and eventually he stopped, never pausing as he talked or even acknowledging his tears.   
  
Once in a while he would show up with bruises on his arms, or a cut on his cheek as though someone with a ring had backhanded him. These days he would curl up very silently, and I would talk, and he would catch hold of my words with fierce eyes never leaving my face as though I were the only thing he had left in the world.   
  
I never looked away, even when confessing things and thoughts I'd had that left me blushing. He never laughed at me, and if I was uncomfortable I would eventually relax under that steady silver gaze.   
  
Sometimes we would only sit in a comfortable silence, enjoying each other's company and surrounded by words and thoughts that we no longer needed to speak to hear.  
  
And sometimes we would talk about things that didn't really matter at all- we would debate over Quidditch moves, discuss how stupid Goyle and Crabbe were and how whichever side finally ended up getting them would undoubtedly be the side to lose the war, and he would counter that the same could be said for Longbottom. Crabbe and Goyle are thicker and stupider than any rock, but Neville is quite likely to end up accidentally blowing up any group he ever goes on a mission with.   
  
When we talked about those things, we would laugh, and smile, and act as though we never talked of anything more serious, and that we had no worries. I needed these talks as much as he did- Ron talks too, but he doesn't have the sharp mind Draco possessed, and Ron is too emotional about things.   
  
With Ron, I would never be able to have a logical debate on the weaknesses and defenses of our own side, or speak about Voldemort with someone else who had seen him and knew the way he worked. Having a Death Eater for a father, Draco had met the Dark Lord in person and warned me to be careful. Voldemort is the ruthless sort who would kill anyone he suspected of spying, or of holding thoughts against him, as I now know well.  
  
But at the time, I didn't know enough to take Draco's words seriously. I would only nod, listening as he talked but not really considering his words.   
  
I didn't know anyone who was spying on Voldemort, and though it seemed likely that there were spies, none of this really occured to me in a conscious thought. I assumed that Draco's father was much more of a threat to him than Voldemort.  
  
Lucius, Draco told me in coldly flippant tones, beat and tortured him. He had ever since he could remember, and his mother never really cared. That, or she was too afraid of his father to help.   
Either way, Draco had developed incredible defenses against the Dark Arts because of it, but still he was only mortal. Physical contact made Draco wary and watchful, but I never got the hang of not touching him.  
  
After spending most of my life attention-starved and locked in a closet, I tended to reach out for my friends instinctively, and often would discover with some surprise as he stopped speaking suddenly and froze that I had touched him again, perhaps running my hand over his arm in a comforting way or brushing his hair out of his eyes when any of it escaped it's rigid structure.  
  
Then, after a long while, I realized with more surprise that he had stopped pulling away from me, and seemed to have become accustomed to my ways. Sometimes he would even grace me with a quick smile while he talked, and stop rocking.   
  
Once, in the spur of some emotion, I had pulled him into my arms and hugged him, and after freezing completely for a second, he had nearly sent me into shock by hugging back. It was awkward for him, and he held his arms stiffly as though he hadn't done this in a long time, if ever, but still... I had only meant it to be a quick hug, but we ended up standing like that for some time, until his arms relaxed and draped more comfortably around me and I felt warm and safer than I had in a very long time.   
  
Then he had smiled at me, given me a sidelong look, and we had sat and said nothing and stared out at the lake, sitting close enough together to share body heat.   
  
I was never certain after that exactly what he was to me. I still hated him sometimes, but at the same time I wasn't myself without him- not having him near felt like missing an arm or a leg, and Ron and Hermione were always asking me if I had lost something because I was always staring around, and they told me I seemed to be looking for something important.   
  
Hermione even suggested I get a Remembrall, but I smiled and told her it wouldn't do me any good.   
Draco knew almost everything about me, and I knew more about him than any other person living or dead. Being with him was as natural as breathing, and it sometimes seemed as necessary. But we oscillated between acing like enemies, friends... and something deeper than friends, although whether in a romantic way or something different I could never decide.   
  
I suppose it doesn't matter anymore; I had had plenty of time to ask him, but had never gotten around to it, and it's too late now.   
  
Isn't it funny sometimes how life works out? How you're just playing the game, chasing the snitch- and suddenly a bludger catches you in the head and knocks your world out of orbit.   
  
Or perhaps something more insidious: you go back to visit your family for Christmas, and several weeks later your old school chest washes up on the Hogwarts lake, containing your head, several body parts, and a thank-you letter sealed with the Dark Mark in miniature.   
Certainly gets the point across, doesn't it?   
  
I thought so.   
  
I still wonder, though, how they knew to send the chest to the exact spot he and I so often sat... I assume they must have raped his mind before they killed him.   
  
Not exactly a cheering thought, eh?   
  
Somehow I think that Voldemort got into more than he bargained for, when he had Draco... destroyed.   
  
Before, I was always at least faintly afraid of him... but now, having nothing left to lose, I see no reason to fear anything.   
  
I think Dumbledore knew. He must have seen it in my eyes- my eyes, that Draco once described as 'emeralds', now look like something dead, but distantly burning. Or as Ron put it, I look 'bloody nutters'. That seems just as accurate- although I'm not certain if I'm insane or not; perhaps it would help if I felt anything anymore but the desire to kill Voldemort and everyone he's ever associated with.   
  
But still, we all need our goals.   
  
So here I am, crouched and ready on a branch hanging above a forest path. I've been studying his patterns for the last several weeks through reports and a bit of spying.   
  
I've been studying quite a few things, in fact.   
  
So when my prey stalks beneath my branch, I stay silent, and wait until Pettigrew passes after him. Then, silent as a panther, I drop invisibly to the ground behind him and pull out a dagger I transfigured from one of Draco's school books, honed to a deadly sheen. I draw the blade deftly across his throat, but he makes more noise than I expected- his sickening, watery gurgles alert Voldemort, who spins and is instantly on the defensive.   
  
Carelessly, I lighten Pettigrew of his wand and allow him to fall writhing to the forest floor.   
Despite the fact that he shouldn't be able to see me under my cloak, Voldemort's wand is pointed unnerringly at me. He looks briefly startled, then smiles, a nasty, rotten sort of look. I can tell by his eyes that Nagina is moving towards me, and spot her with only a little trouble.   
"Incendio," I breath, and the huge serpent bursts into flames. She hisses her screams and pleas for help, but I distract Voldemort from saving her by decloaking.   
  
He pauses, then gives me that smile again.   
  
"You may have taken out my servants- but you know that your wand won't work against me."  
I tilt my head, giving him a passive smile. "Of course, you're right." I nod in an agreeing sort of way, and leisurely raise the wand. "How very fortunate for me that this isn't my wand at all. Avada-"  
  
As Voldemort quickly raises his wand and begins murmuring a desperate spell, I discreetly flick my wrist in a way I've been practising since I discovered Draco's chest.   
  
The silver blade snicks through the air and lands with a satisfying scream in Voldemort's abdomen. It isn't enough to kill him, but that isn't the point right now at all.   
  
Pale faced, Voldemort grimaces and stumbles back, raising his wand- whether to Disapparate, or try to kill me, I don't know, because at that instant he stumbles back another step and the ground crumbles beneath his feet, dropping him like a stone through water into the hole I made especially for him.   
  
His brief shout of surprise is silenced with a thud, and I stroll in a casual way over to the edge, peering down. "Lumos," I whisper, and the tip of Pettigrew's wand obediently glows to fill the hole. Just to be safe, I Summon his wand.   
  
I toss Voldemort's wand aside, taking every precaution I can. The self-styled 'Dark Lord' is looking anything but, his ashen face glaring up at me as though looks could kill.   
I smile at him, and this seems to scare him more than anything else. Perhaps Ron really is right about how I look lately, but it doesn't matter.   
  
"You know," I state conversationally, surprised a little at how very calm I sound. A few weeks ago, just thinking about any of this would have made me ill, but now here I am, only wishing that more of them will show up so I can take them all on. "I really didn't expect to survive this. I planned to kill you, but after that I didn't really have any plans. Now I'm considering keeping you alive, until I can find a way to do to your mind what you did to his. That way I could hunt down every one of your loyal murderers."  
  
Drawing in his breath makes a sort of bubbling noise in Voldemort's lungs, and I wonder with detached interest if I hadn't hit anything vital after all. Wouldn't that be something?  
  
"If you leave me alive..." (Another struggling breath.) "I swear to you, Potter, I will kill you and everyone you love."  
  
I feel my smile grow wide and cold, and hear a chill laugh that raises the hairs of my arms when I realize it's coming from me. "I doubt that very much, Voldemort. But for old time's sake... Cruciatus."  
  
His twisted body convulses, spine arching as though electricity is being poured through him.   
  
"Finite incantatum." I watch him like a cat, lids drooping, borrowing a look I'd seen Draco give a hundred thousand times. I'm wrapping Voldemort's pained moans and pants for air around me, as though trying to devour them, wanting to fill that Draco-shaped void in my life with his pain and suffering. I almost succeed in listening too well, when a sound makes me spin around. It's Pettigrew, blood still pouring from his inexpertly slashed throat, clinging to life with a truly frightening will. I wonder if it's fear or loyalty for Voldemort that makes him raise up his Dark Lord's wand and start the curse that will surely end my life- wonder if I'm hearing things or if the wind is really hissing Pettigrew's name with Draco's voice.  
  
Whatever it is, apparently Pettigrew hears it too- he freezes, and in that instant instinct kicks in and I shout "Expelliarmus!". As the wand flies once more into my hand, Pettigrew's eyes go wide in terror, before glazing over as he finally gives in to death.   
Shaking, I turn back to the pit, looking into Voldemort's sunken eyes as he glares weakly up at me.   
  
"Your last trick failed, Voldemort," I keep my voice steady. "And now, I've tired of you- Avada Kadav-"  
  
"Harry. Stop."  
  
I freeze, feeling my blood flow like ice through my veins, making it's deadly way to my heart. Hearing Draco's voice coming from Voldemort's lips...  
  
Shaking harder now, I concentrate on holding my wand steady. "Avada K-"  
  
"Harry! You aren't thinking- shouldn't you just incapacitate him? Leave him to the justice of Dumbledore and all the others he's hurt?"  
  
I force myself to swallow some air. "Y... This isn't real. You're dead, there's no way-"  
"Harry." I have to open my eyes- with them closed, it's too real, far too real for my mind to handle right now. I try to keep the hope off my face and out of my eyes- that hope has a dangerous edge to it, and all my instincts fight against it. But it sounds just like him...  
"Yes, I am dead. But when Voldemort took my thoughts out of my brain, he took in part of me too- listen to me! Would I ever hurt you?"  
  
Another shaking breath, and my eyes close again, as I press my palms to my aching head. This can't be real- it's too much, way too much... What if he's telling the truth? Can I kill Voldemort, knowing I'll be killing off the last piece of Draco that's still alive?  
  
"Harry, you know I'm telling the truth. Think about it, do you really think one old man could kill me? Please, Harry-"  
  
It was the 'please' that did it. I'd never heard him ask for anything, in all the time we'd talked. I clench my eyes close, feeling pressure building in my head and pain in my throat, but finally force my eyes open and raise Pettigrew's wand a final time.   
  
"Avada... Kedavra."   
  
Draco's voice begins to scream, and then slowly Voldemort's own joins and replaces it. The sound haunts me into unconsciousness as I collapse, too weary to worry about what will happen if anyone finds me.  
It turns out it was a simple Mimicking charm.   
  
Figures that a wizard as powerful as Voldemort wouldn't need a wand for certain charms... but it still hurts thinking about it. Part of me, I suppose, will always wonder if they only say it was a charm to try to comfort me.   
  
And no one can explain the wind that Peter and I heard- Hermione seems to think that it was only stress, or maybe, most logically, Voldemort's charm going into effect. He had tried to call his servant to help him, and in doing so brought about his own downfall.   
  
It doesn't really matter anymore, anyway.   
  
Sometimes, now, I sit by the lake where we used to go, and I'll sit quietly and talk to him in my mind. Hermione and Ron are still my friends, but I suppose everyone is a little afraid of me now- what I did to Peter Pettigrew was pretty cold-hearted. One of the medi-wizards who found him ended up throwing up into the bushes by the path. No one says anything about Nagina's ashes, even though by the look in their eyes I can tell that when they stare at me, they remember that I'm a Parseltongue, and wonder how I could stand to kill her and understand her screaming.   
  
They don't mention Voldemort either. That I killed him when he was pleading with me in the voice of a boy who's death had obviously almost destroyed me was something that no one wanted to think about - including me.   
  
For now, I'm pleased enough that no one argued with me when I requested that I be allowed to care for Draco's owl. I know that everyone is disappointed in me - by killing Voldemort, I lost the wizarding world any chance at plumbing his mind for the wizards and secrets in it. But I think maybe Dumbledore understands - he told me himself that some secrets are better for everyone if they're kept that way.   
  
Right now, I can't worry about anything. I'm too focused on not thinking, not feeling anything - and sometimes I wonder if I'll be able to undo what I'm doing now. I suppose I'll cross that bridge if I ever get to it. For now, all I know is that this emptiness in me is almost a physical pain, making my head hurt and feel dizzy and sick.   
  
I had to resign from my post as Seeker- seeing the Snitch always just brings back too many memories of midnight talks with Draco about Quidditch and the carefree life of Hogwarts. I took some sick leave and visited the Dursleys, but after a day their fear and hatred became too much to take. Of course, Dumbledore had told them about what I'd done - I'm sure he thought it was a good idea.   
  
All I have left now is Hogwarts, with all the bittersweet, painful memories it brings. But that razor-sharp hope that Voldemort's last trick gave to me has never fully left, and it's still cutting me everytime I see anyone with blond hair and think maybe he's come back. A flash of blue-grey eyes in the hallway... sometimes, even someone smirking or a laugh will bring memories crashing into me at full speed.   
  
With Voldemort now dead and irrevocably gone, life is getting better for all the wizarding world. People are celebrating almost constantly, and have been for days- wherever I go, people cheer me on, then falter when they see the look in my eyes. I think they resent me, for being so upset while they're happy.   
  
So now I hide.   
  
My current spot to escape the well-meaning wizards is the roof of the Astronomy tower, where I have an almost unobstructed view of the grounds.   
  
It's night now. From here, I can watch the night fog curling dense upon the black lake. Against my will, my eyes stray to the spot where Draco and I sat so often. A cold blind blows across the lake, rippling the waves and billowing in the fog. I'm past feeling cold. I haven't really felt anything, in fact, since the last time I saw Draco...   
  
The wind blows again. Memories and emotions weigh heavily on me, and I bow my head to my arms. Like the sudden breeze, a familiar voice caresses me, and I feel a cool hand touch my shoulder. Head snapping up, I almost fall from the tower, but manage to catch myself.   
  
A dream, Harry, I tell myself. It was only a dream...   
  
My breath catches, and I hold my knees for comfort. My dreams are all that keep me alive anymore.  
On the roof of the Astronomy tower in the middle of the night, Harry Potter, murderer of the Dark Lord and savior of the world, finally breaks. Curled in on myself, I finally give into my grief, sobbing in the cold for the loss of my enemy. As I do, a bitter thought resolves in my mind, crystallizing in the force of my loss.  
  
In the end, Lord Voldemort won. The child who sent him into hiding was well and truly dead.  
--End--  
  
Questions? Comments? Recommendations for a good psychiatrist...? ^_^ All are welcome. This fic was begun summat near a year ago, probably closer to two years. Yeah, I suck x.x; *waves cheerfully* 


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